


Weak As A Kitten

by celesteal, DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), Angry John, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF John Watson, Confused Sherlock, Dark John, Dark Past, Dark Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Greg is a bit not good, Helpless Sherlock, Jealous John, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Horndog, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Porn with Feelings, Possessive John, Post Mary, Rough Sex, Scared Sherlock, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is a Tease, Spanking, Violent Thoughts, You Have Been Warned, You're not man enough to take my man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celesteal/pseuds/celesteal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>John tries to bury his lust for his flatmate that has been  forbidden fruit for so long. The untouchable detective drives him near crazy with his troubling new behavior. He doesn't know Sherlock isn't afraid of sex; he's petrified by it. However, he wants it with John so much that he's willing to go through Sherlock-like lengths to tempt the ex-soldier to make his move. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>_________________________</p><blockquote>
  <p>It used to be that John would emotionally torment himself when he realized what Sherlock did in his absence. He berated himself for daring to leave the man's side. That was when it started, after all, when John had left him to wed Mary. Sherlock had never really seemed to recover from that breach of trust. </p>
  <p>Even now after they have put that whole messy, horrific business behind them and John has returned for good, Sherlock looks at him differently. There is something rawer just beneath that guarded facade. And when John leaves, no matter if it is for an hour to run an errand or a day to do his shift at surgery, he returns to find some version of<i> this.</i> </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of a wonderful collaboration of a writer good at dark smut and a writer good at feels that both have a thing for Dark John.
> 
> More chapters are in the works and it only gets more saucy so subscribe to follow along.
> 
>  
> 
> **We greatly appreciate your kudos and comments! Your feedback keeps us going!**

It's so routine now that when John comes home from surgery to find the brunet nearly passed out on the couch, the last tendrils of 7% solution coursing through his veins and weighing him down into helplessness, he doesn't even bat an eye. 

Stepping in the door to the sitting room, John takes in the sight of his flatmate. His long, pale limbs are sprawled akimbo against the dark, leather sofa. One slender hand is splayed on the old, ratty t-shirt covering his too-lean chest and the other is dangling weakly; fingers brushing the floor. A pajama-clad leg is cast over the back of the sofa with a bare foot snaking up the wall. The other leg is bent awkwardly to the floor. His head is tipped back exposing the smooth, ivory column of his neck. The careless vulnerability of it all is a stark contrast to Sherlock’s usual tight control.

He looks as if he fell from the sky, a notion that sends a cold shiver through John's body.

In a heartbeat, John takes this in. His lips form a tight line but he doesn't say a word; doesn't even growl. He strides over with steely determination and promptly gathers the feeble man into his arms; easily lifting his slight weight. 

Sherlock’s eyelids barely open. A flash of silver blue heated with anger peeks out from under long, dark lashes and assures John that somewhere in that lithe body is his friend’s fiercely brilliant mind. 

Sherlock puts up a pitiful, kitten-weak defense, fingers digging frantically into John's chest and neck before submitting to the strong, unyielding arms carrying him to his room. 

John gently places Sherlock down on the man's own bed. He arranges his too loose limbs so that his hands are on his chest, running a finger casually over the the bruised and scabbed inner crook of his elbow. 

As he pulls up the covers, it strikes him how habit can dull even the most frantic of fears into old hat. There is a numbness that overtakes the mind after a while; a tolerance for the disappointment, the worry, the fear and the pain.

It used to be that John would emotionally torment himself when he realized what Sherlock did in his absence. He berated himself for daring to leave the man's side. That was when it started, after all, when John had left him to wed Mary. Sherlock had never really seemed to recover from that breach of trust. 

Even now, after they have put that whole messy, horrific business behind them, and John has returned for good, Sherlock looks at him differently. There is something rawer just beneath that guarded facade. And when John leaves, no matter if it is for an hour to run an errand or a day to do his shift at surgery, he returns to find some version of _this._

Initially, John would coddle his friend with a worried gentleness that had sometimes succeeded in the times before Mary. If he caught Sherlock early enough after injection and the man was still bouncing about with drug-induced excitement John would actually follow him all through the flat, trying to keep up, waiting for the lethargy to set in. He would plead and lecture and tend to him as if he might perish without his constant attention. Sherlock only seemed to despise this more, spitting bitter words at him and remaining sullen for days after.

So then John resorted to aggression. He stormed and snarled with curses and raging threats, all of which was met with Sherlock’s casual indifference and an infuriatingly taunting smile. The man knew all his buttons and seemed to take a dark delight in driving John to the edge. 

Inevitably, John's rage flared so out of control he found himself pinning a rabid Sherlock to the floor with an arm twisted up his back in a way that would cause him to use it gingerly for days. Sherlock never offered any form of physical defense or counter-attack, but even as his slim frame yielded beneath John's fury, he continued goading the soldier. 

At last John came to his senses and realized how _‘not good’_ this was quickly going to get and withdrew his efforts to conquer this problem by force.

John has always admired the human brain’s capacity for pain. He finds it fascinating that it has an innate ability to become desensitized so that even the most agonizing or repugnant of situations, with simple persistence, becomes tolerable or even comfortable in its familiarity. War and a career as a surgeon desensitized him to blood and violence and a lifetime of living with addicts had perfectly adapted him to his current situation. 

While he knows he should be more concerned about Sherlock's slip back into the grasp of cocaine, he is comfortably numb. He finds himself somewhat contently resigned to deal with yet another person close to him who is an addict. 

_This, he knows. This, he can handle._

In some ways it is within John’s power to end this. He knows that all it takes is a single phone call and Mycroft will send in a team to haul Sherlock away to a rehab. But that wouldn't really fix what is broken. Sherlock isn't trying to kill himself. He's not trying to overdose. He is far too smart to actually overdo it. 

Sherlock, in all his mind-blowing brilliance, shines cold and pure within this ugly and backward world. It is hardly his fault that this reality fails to provide sufficient stimulus for such extraordinary intellect. He, more than anyone, deserves a reprieve from the lonely and endlessly frustrating existence of living among goldfish. 

_Besides, Sherlock is_ his _mad genius, addict and no one is going to take him away and try to_ fix _him._

John should probably be ashamed of that dark vein of selfishness that marbels his intentions. He tells himself that the possessiveness is excusable given all the hell they have gone through and the times they have lost each other, but he knows there is something inherently wrong in feeling a certain bond forged in Sherlock’s return to addiction. He has a twisted sense that _this_ is _intimate,_ something between just the two of them. 

Sherlock is playing with drugs. He is flirting with danger to test the limits of his own body, and John is here for him in a way that no one else can be.

John stands a moment staring down at the defenseless mad genius. He watches his chest rise and fall. His lips, slightly parted, drink in rapid breaths. His eyelids flutter as if trying for the quick flickering motion that they make when he gathers data for deductions. John meets Sherlock's stare and those pale blue eyes of his flare with a sudden and strange sharpness.

"John," Sherlock calls. His voice is strangled and edged with a desperation that John can't identify the source of. It's higher in pitch too, which sometimes happens when Sherlock's constant control falters. John seldom witnesses this. He feels a heat curl tight through his chest and snake low into his gut. 

He is frozen for a second, held suspended within that smoldering gaze as his name hangs in the air between them like a plea. He starts to move to address him, but Sherlock's eyes snap closed and, with a whimpering moan, he rolls away, curling in on himself. 

John turns on his heels and marches out with determination. He stumbles upstairs to his room. The blood has so quickly rushed down below that his vision has gone grey and he wonders if he might pass out. Every unsatisfied urge he has ever had seems to be rushing in, crashing into him like a tsunami of want. 

Before he can completely shut his door he is already pulling out his aching cock; excruciatingly engorged and already dripping. He flops face down on the bed trying to will the thoughts away, but when he closes his eyes all he can see is that searing hot stare and those too plump lips forming around the cry of his name. He is unable to turn his mind back from the dark path of desire it hurtles down. 

Sherlock lays in the room below him; powerless, vulnerable and achingly desperate for… _something_... from John.

John comes grunting lowly into his pillow; rutting violently against the smooth white sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tests John's limits. John struggles with his own desires and finding a way to make the consulting detective stop abusing his own body.

John considers himself a brave man or at least one that does not surrender without a fight. If this were a physical confrontation the ex-soldier would have no problem attacking the problem head on. 

But this is nothing so straightforward. Even getting to the problem requires infiltrating the impenetrable defenses of one Sherlock Holmes and delving into what makes the mad genius tick. There was never a more elusive or ingenious foe. 

_Talk about a war zone. Sod being a soldier; have to be a goddamn ninja, more like it._

While it is likely an act of futility, he feels he needs to at least try to talk with Sherlock about the drug use. It is all very casual and manageable now, but this can't continue indefinitely… especially since last night revealed this to be challenging John in ways he thought he had long since beaten down and locked under tight control. 

So he makes himself some toast and tea and sits on the couch to wait for his flatmate to emerge from his room.

Once again, however, he finds himself outplayed by Sherlock’s mastery of the art of evasion. It is late morning when the consulting detective bursts from his bedroom into the sitting room; bright, bubbly and bouncing around. 

His fingers dance across his phone. His long legs pace the floor in quick strides. He never even looks at John as he rapidly lays out details about another case Lestrade is requesting help on and concludes by stating that the Detective Inspector is expecting them shortly. 

John sets his jaw in a stern expression and narrows his eyes on the tall, trim figure, bouncing about on his long, spindle-like legs, like a deer who can’t decide which side of the street to jump to. 

“Sherlock, we need to talk,” he states firmly when the manic detective slows down for a breath.

The fluff of his big loose curls is a mess from sleep in a way that pulls at something inside John, but his pale eyes are as sharp and as blazing as ever. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick from his phone screen up to John. His head tilts and he runs a quick assessing gaze over the older man.

“Don't make me repeat myself, John. You know how I abhor it.” He waves the phone at him. “7. Maybe 8.” He whirls towards his bedroom, housecoat flapping around him. “Leaving in five minutes, John,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Fine. We’ll talk later,” John grits out.

“Whatever,” Sherlock says dismissively with a too casual shrug as he disappears into his bedroom once again. 

 ___________________________

Cases are always good. The thrill and intrigue keeps Sherlock’s overly-clever brain engaged enough to remain off the drugs. John can leave and Sherlock doesn't even seem to notice; continuing to hold conversations with him in his Mind Palace to work out the mystery. 

Given that this latest case seems especially complex, John figures he will be free from the torment of coming home to find Sherlock has drugged himself into stupor for at least five days. 

“It’s the lighting, John! Don’t you see?” The consulting detective exclaims when John enters the flat that evening, returning from his run to Tesco. 

The brunet is laying on his back on the floor, legs propped up on the seat of the couch and slender hands holding a dusty book aloft, apparently trying to read from that odd position. There’s a strange pitch to his voice, subtle, but it’s there.

“Ok,” John says in that patient tone that means he doesn't _see_ but he’ll wait to be enlightened.

Something tingles at the back of John's skull, not unlike the sense of _danger_ he has right before everything goes to hell. As he moves to the kitchen, he feels the strange _battle calm_ slip over him; that false sense of peace that seizes him automatically before a fight. 

_It’s fine. It's all fine. Nothing to be alarmed about, Watson._

John slowly and deliberately puts on the kettle and stows the groceries, twice needing to stop to will his fists and jaw to unclench. 

With his brittle patience crumbling he continues to listen expectantly to the thickening silence left by Sherlock’s refusal to say anything further.

_No need for alarm. This is normal, self-absorbed, Sherlock. Probably in his bloody Mind Palace having tea with Einstein and Jack the Ripper._

As he pours the tea into two mugs, adding milk to his and sugar to Sherlock’s, John’s body is vibrating with a tension that clings to him like static electricity. He feels certain it is gathering and just waiting for the wrong move in order to lash out; snapping through the air and crackling like a whip of pure electricity. 

The ex-soldier is wearing a thin veneer of false calm when he at last brings his companion a cup of tea and settles onto the couch next to his feet. This mask splits open like a festering wound when he sees the tell-tale signs of intemperance written all over the body at his feet. 

In this close proximity John can now clearly see the cuff of Sherlock's left sleeve is unbuttoned and, in holding the book aloft, has slid down below the crook of his elbow where a fresh prick is evident against the once pristine slip of pale flesh.

 _There it is._ That's what John had seen and his body had reacted to but his mind had not comprehended. 

_’Ever you see but don't observe’_ Sherlock’s voice from the past reverberates through John's head.

The icy, grey-blue of the detectives irises are nearly swallowed by the deep, black wells of his pupils. He is staring up at John with a look that is both abstracted and curious, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. His toes wiggle against the back of the couch, almost expectantly, and the book he’s holding, _The Lucifer Effect,_ slowly lowers to his chest. 

John’s grip on his frayed temper snaps like a rubber band pulled too taut. The recoil ripples through his insides with such dark force that he feels himself jerk; all his muscles clenching painfully as if he's just grabbed a live electrical wire. 

The army had done wonders for providing him the discipline to control his temper and living with Sherlock had certainly given him practice in patience and tolerance but the tidal wave of anger that crashes into John now takes him right back to being the pugnacious teenager with a fiery temper and a chip on his shoulder. 

John seeths; certain his skin has turned poisonous with the darkness bubbling just beneath the surface. His body is nearly quivering with rage, yet his mind is calm and cold; his thoughts sliding across the surface like ice skate blades on a frozen lake.

_It’s happening again._

_Soon._

_I’ll be picking up that wafer-thin frame and carrying it to bed soon._

His eyes are predatory as he narrows them on the figure lying prone on the floor. Something is twisting in his throat and clawing its way upwards; an inhuman growl. His vision is going red on the edges. Distantly he thinks that if Sherlock knows what is good for him he'd start running now, because whatever is taking over John’s body is vicious and frenzied and completely out of his control. His heart is pounding in his chest.

_Soon_

The ex-soldier takes two deep breaths in and out and just as he thinks he can hold out against the anger and walk away, there is an almost imperceptible flexing of Sherlock’s plump, pink lips. A subtle move designed to draw John’s eye. Then a slight parting and a barely audible sound, inviting John to consider what those lips can do. And John's mind unhelpfully takes the invitation, imagining those luscious lips, soft and giving, against his own. He imagines their pinkness turning overly swollen and ruby-red from bruising, fierce kisses, indentions of John’s teeth scored across them. He imagines what they might look like slick with saliva in an obscene stretch around his long, thick length. He wonders how much he could reasonably push inside that mouth without causing too much damage. 

And then, of all the nasty taunts, he is forced to witnesses those lips slide into a knowing smile, and John thinks his heart is most certainly going into tachycardia. He grinds his teeth together. 

Sherlock _must_ know what he’s doing to him at this moment. The man might be oblivious, disdainful and inexperienced _(John can only assume from the lack of any evidence of any partners over the past seven years)_ about all things sexual but he absolutely knows how to detect the signs of arousal. He has stated as much. And John has seen the emotionally obtuse detective hone in on people’s deepest secrets, their hidden fears, desires, ambitions, and wield them against the unsuspecting victims like a blunt object. Now it seems the man has turned that wicked, taunting streak on John.

_Fucking little tart is doing it on purpose._

John slowly rises to his feet, nostrils flaring, unable to heave in air quick enough. Pooling low in his gut, there is a molten churning; equal parts fury and arousal. John is straining to keep control, his jaw aching from how tightly clenched it is, all his muscles throb. 

All through this abject torture Sherlock is still wearing his smirk and it, like everything else about the man, is so _wrong_. Unjust. It needles John, destroying his now fragile restraint, but his bones feel like they are fused together, disabling him from striking.

Sherlock’s thick eyebrow raises, like a challenge, ever so slightly into the fringe over his forehead. That last tether is severed and John is watching from behind his own eyes as his body lunges into motion. Thoughts tumble around him; broken and weak justifications for the actions he is already taking. 

_Soon is too far away. Eons. It hurts. Just thinking about having to wait any longer is a physical pain. Waited a lifetime. Always settling. Always sacrificing. Always serving others. Always living within Spartan means. Never having. Never fully _owning_ anything so remotely as gorgeous, as finely-made, as all that delicate bone structure and paler-than-pale flesh. No waiting! No more accommodating him for every bloody little thing. Waiting for that idiot that drugs himself on purpose._

Everything unlocks in that instant. John moves like a tiger, starved and beaten in a cage, finally sprung free; all that fury and predator instinct and hunger quivering in every muscle. He scoops the younger man up and throws him up over his shoulder with ease, the weight a sweet press of realness against him. 

It catches Sherlock off-guard, as well it should; John is typically patient in waiting to take Sherlock to bed. Since the incident where he sprained Sherlock’s arm, he always holds back until that time when Sherlock is at last dragged into the heavy oblivion of crashing down from his high so that there is barely any fight left in him. Not that Sherlock doesn’t always struggle and flail a little bit, unless he’s passed out. 

However, when the stupor and lethargy has him, his mind often seems to retreat. John can generally assume that all his engagements with the man's lissome form will never make it into that enormous hard drive. 

_That seems better for all parties involved._

John’s actions turn out to be so abrupt and out-of-character that he is rewarded with a momentary flash of shock on the drugged man’s face. Sherlock's wide eyes bloom huge for a second and he cries out his surprise and then is complete still. John feels the surge of power and confidence in this small victory.

 _Fuck, yes. That’s right you damn little idiot. Forgot who you were messing with, didn't you?_

_Behaving like a fucking little_ brat _. A toddler. Just a genius two-year-old… in_ that _body. Looking like_ that. _Blimey. Always pushing. Always taunting. Always worming your way into every corner of my life and head. Fucking forbidden fruit. Never allowed to touch - not even to save you from yourself. Ridiculous. Unfair._ Put the absurd man-child to bed and move on, Watson. 

John realizes too late that this new way of carrying the menace that is his flatmate isn’t a smart move nor was engaging him while he is still alert. The stillness only lasts a few steps, then Sherlock becomes nearly manic as he writhes in John’s arms in the same way he always attempts to do. The ex-soldier might have thought it heart-rending or adorable at one time; not now. He finds this infuriating as it is futile. It does not really create any hardship in carrying the wisp of a man; his slim body is an easy load for John always. However, the squirming around in John’s strong arms, like some sort of frightened rabbit caught in a wolf’s jaws, is making his already hard cock turn to iron. 

With Sherlock’s body draping over his shoulder, he feels like a savage brute; a neanderthal. Beastly. Irrational; everything Sherlock is always railing against as despicable in all the _too human_ idiots around him. John has always aspired to not appear base and boorish in Sherlock’s eyes. For Sherlock, he’d shoved all those parts of himself down, keeping them controlled except for the occasional flare. But between anger, frustration, arousal and a sense that he is too goddamn old to pretend anymore, something has broken inside John to free him of those self-imposed restrictions. It feels _good._

It takes every ounce of willpower to resists the urge to turn his head and sink his teeth into the narrow, pale hip resting so close to his face. The enticing flesh has become exposed with Sherlock’s twisting, turning and undulating motions. John'snorts mouth waters and he can almost taste flesh and blood.

He wraps his arms tightly around the thinner man's legs to keep them still; his fingers digging into soft, yielding flesh. Sherlock bleats, but keeps scrabbling uselessly with his hands against any part of John he can reach. 

He can scarcely hear Sherlock’s protesting whines over the pound of his own blood in his ears as he marches to Sherlock's bedroom. He may be calling John’s name, or clamoring that he still has work to do, or hurling snide insults to goad his captor on. _It does not matter._ John is cold fury focused into a single white hot point.

He kicks the door to Sherlock’s room open. Sherlock goes wild, reaching out and snagging the door frame with his hands. John feels the resistance and with a lunge forward, strains against Sherlock’s grip until it cannot hold and they break free. 

John stumbles forward and, in that moment of imbalance, Sherlock's surprisingly long fingernails scrape deep lines up his back. John hisses and arches forward. It takes a heartbeat longer than normal for the sting to register in his brain and then it is like someone has thrown petrol on an already raging fire. Everything goes white.

“What the hell, Sherlock,” he bellows. His voice is deep and strangely savage, even to his own ears, as he tosses his lithe prey onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. 

Sherlock seems to sense his error and instantly; eyes wide in genuine distress, he twists, leaping up to be on all fours and scrambling across the bed away from John. 

“No you don't!” John moves with the swift, ruthless precision, his strong hand wrapping around a delicate ankle and hauling Sherlock back towards himself until his flatmate’s long legs are off the bed. 

He feels _powerful_. He’s always had the advantage of strength over Sherlock with his broader and more muscular frame, but now having the brunette (whose height seems to be all in long legs, long neck, and fluffy curls) like _this_ , without that height advantage, is thrilling. He is certain no one has ever seen the genius consulting detective made this humble and vulnerable. The tantalizing sight makes a primal grunt escape John's lips. 

He leans fully bodily with his forearm into the small of Sherlock’s back so his top half is pressed into the mattress. The slender body squirms and wiggles, but is effectively held bent over the bed. 

John swallows and licks his lips. He watches as his Sherlock writhes under him, deciding what action to take. There is something deeply tantalising, delectably erotic about the show the younger man provides, jolting and straining beneath him. Prey thrashing in a trap. 

The sounds of Sherlock’s near breathless half-whimpers half-growls keeps that dark something that churns uncomfortably in John’s chest trapped there. Sherlock’s protests stir a slow, volatile hunger in the surgeon. 

_Focus, Watson! Not about you._

John fixes his mind instead on teaching the younger man the consequences of his actions. He has long suspected that the reason Sherlock is so reckless, cruel, thoughtless, irresponsible and otherwise inhuman is the fact that Sherlock can do practically anything and someone _(Mycroft, John, Lestrade, Molly)_ will step in and shelter him from the consequences of his actions. 

John is _done_ being part of _that problem._

“Go ahead, act like a fucking child,” John growls, barring his teeth in a intimidating snarl. “ _This_ is how you’ll be treated.” John hauls back his hand and smacks Sherlock’s fleshy, firm buttocks so hard it causes several sounds simultaneously: a cracking noise, a high-pitched gasped-out cry fading into a low moan, rivaled only by John’s own deep groan. All of which are immediately followed by a sudden quiet. 

The air is suddenly charged in a way John didn’t expect. A scintillating crackle of heat in the shift of awareness. So much of Sherlock exists in his mind, but John can feel how very aware he is of his body now; its fragility, its capacity for pain in John's hands… 

And, _John’s mind ventures wistfully,_ for pleasure.

He waits, fully prepared to deal another strike if necessary, given the stubborn man’s irrational compulsion to test limits and lack of willingness to learn any lessons readily. 

Sherlock is panting, hands fisted in the covers of his duvet, his body trembling with some mixture of shock and barely contained vibrancy. Amazingly, he doesn’t move or say a word. 

“Enough?” John barks. 

In the quiet room there is only heavy breathing. John feels it in the younger man’s back, in the ways he relaxes into the bed and all those tightly coiled muscles unfurl into pliancy. 

It is so deliciously tempting for John to take what he has just won, but the sharp edge of anger provides a welcome counterbalance to those urges. He sucks in a deep breath and leans forward, pressing his face close enough that he could bite down on that fragile nape of his neck. He bares his teeth once more in a snarl that raises the fine, downy tassels of curly hairs in instinctual alarm. 

“If you even think about drugging yourself again for no other reason than to mess with me... Hell, if you drug yourself for any reason, _full stop,_ I want you to remember this moment, Sherlock. Tomorrow and every day after that you have to look in the mirror and see that big purple bruise in the shape of my hand on your ass, remember how you feel right now. And when you feel that sting of pain when you go to sit down, you'll remember exactly what I can and _will_ do to you.” 

Sherlock gasps. Christ, but he _gasps_ , shuddering. He is panting in pain and shivering too. John knows he didn’t hit him _that_ hard, so this over-sensitive reaction _has_ to be more than pain.

A hot lust avalanche slams into John at the breathtaking spectacle Sherlock makes. There is a tremble pulsing through his lean frame in little, jittery waves. His eyes are screwed shut, long lashes fanning out across pale, high cheekbones, now dusted the shade of soft, pink rose petals. This hue has spread down the length of his lovely white throat, onto his chest, where it disappears into the collar of his t-shirt. Then there’s that _mouth_. That beautifully innocent and decadently _sinful_ mouth, containing, within its absurdly plump and perfect cupid’s bow shape, uncountable untapped carnal pleasures that John can only dream of exploring. It is opened wide; red, wet and panting. 

When his eyelids flutter open, Sherlock gazes over his shoulder at John warily, like a prey animal might after it has been cornered; but there something else there besides lingering fear, something searching and expectant. 

John stares back with a cold, unyielding expression. He draws himself up so that he looms over Sherlock's body. Something in the eyes of the quivering man below shifts slightly. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say that, in Sherlock’s expression, his own arousal is reciprocated. 

But this is Sherlock so _that_ can’t be right. 

_Moreover this is John’s life, and he’s never been that lucky._

John stands up and walks away, his posture soldier rigid. As he reaches the door he hears it. 

“John.” This time there is an odd, broken rawness to the plea that is an echo from the previous night when John put him to bed. Something leaden is sinking in John’s already painfully tight groin. That voice, heavy with want and edged with desperation, shakes him. 

John glances over and quickly snaps his eyes away. The debauched state of his companion proves too much. Sherlock has rolled to his side and dragged himself onto the bed. All that flush on pale skin seems higher in color. Perhaps a hint of an erection is there too but John refuses to fall into the trap of studying that area when he is aleady so on edge.

John reminds himself of the purpose of this display and counts it a victory that the lithe form merely twists around to his side and not his back. 

_He will remember this - for days. How can he not? And maybe,_ just maybe _he'll stop._

In pale-blue-eyes-turned-pupil John sees an expectant look. Anticipation, much the same as when Sherlock asks for his medical consultation over a dead body, but here there is a hint of something deep and vulnerable in this expression. John never could bare the raw honesty of such a look on his companion’s face and feels himself take a step towards him in spite of his resolve to leave. 

Sherlock is waiting for John to do something and he has no idea what that is. He’s no consulting detective afterall. He is a lot of things, but beneath it all he is just a man with needs and wants. Right now he _needs_ Sherlock to stop looking at him like _that._ He _wants_ a million things at once; many, he knows, are too dark and depraved to see the light of day but most of all he wants to not _want_ so much. 

_So much all the bloody time._

_God, why can't he just tell me what he wants?_

That faint taunting smile is back on his lips. It simultaneously incites and keeps John’s passion curbed. It reminds John of all the raw looks and the too frequent, lingering touches over the years that made the doctor ache with the lack of fulfillment. There is a bitterness in finding himself here after everything they've went through for and with each other. His anger rears its head at the audacity of Sherlock’s current behavior. 

John retreats back to the door, and growls out a command, biting off each word, “Stay. In. bed.” 

Whereas John spanking the detective had put him into a state of shocked pliancy, John moving to leave does the exact opposite. Sherlock immediately scrambles to sit up. He gasps faintly in pain as he does, but still manages it. He looks at John, appearing more frightened and confused than any time before, and moves to stand and pursue. 

He freezes when John growls in a low, dangerous tone, “Remember what I said, Sherlock.” John flexes his left hand at his side, still stinging from the blow. As intended, it draws Sherlock’s attention, his eyes fixing on it. “I am done with the games. Now you’ve been warned. Your body is forfeit if I ever catch you drugged up like this again.” 

John storms out and slams the door behind himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you are feeling it, show some love with Kudos and comments. Your responses _really_ fuel our creative fires! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pushes John to the brink with even more dangerous and erratic behavior, this time at Scotland Yard. The consulting detective gets flirty with a mutal aquaintance and John gets jealous, possessive and shows more than a little of his BAMF side.

_He just doesn't give a fuck anymore._

This is all John can assume as, standing in the middle of New Scotland Yard, he catches Sherlock’s eyes for the briefest of moments and notes the pupils blown wide. 

It is so glaringly apparent. John knows the instant he notices how Sherlock is fluttering about like an agitated hummingbird. He always walks on his toes when high; moving with almost inhuman swiftness and with the fluidity of a ballet dancer. 

John clenches and unclenches his hand at his side as he glances around at the familiar faces of the detectives of NSY. They hold their usual assortment of irritation, frustration, anger and disbelief for the spectacle that is Sherlock Holmes, but no one but John appears to have cottoned on to what is really happening, _yet_. 

The consulting detective is pacing, prancing really; gazelle-leaping around the room, one side to the other, head tilting, mouth working a mile a minute, drawing the eyes of nearly everyone in the main station room. Thankfully, most everyone is accustomed to the detective being a unique type of menace and they make themselves busy in an effort to avoid his attention. 

The spitting of words, like rapid gunfire, is continuous, as if it would literally hurt Sherlock to try to stem the endless flow of information from his brain to his mouth. What little filter he typically has, now appears gone. He rattles off observation, after deduction, after inference; about the current case, previous cases, about various people in the office. With childlike, attention-seeking behavior, the younger man apparently finds it irresistible to babble every little genius thought out loud... and he keeps glancing at John as if to assure himself that he is holding his blogger’s attention.

Those silver-gray eyes are large and hold that manic glint to them that makes John’s hand itch to either grab him by his long, thin throat and throttle him right there in front of everyone or grab a handful of those curly locks and drag him all the way back home where he can have a proper row with him. 

John scans the room uneasily, knowing it is only a matter of time before someone figures it out. More than likely that someone will be Lestrade, who has known the consulting detective long enough to discern what behaviour is within Sherlock’s normal spectrum of bizarreness.

He feels the tension radiating from his body as he is forced into a holding pattern, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He clenches his jaw, and swallows thickly, held still by the warring rage and confusion he is trying desperately to tamper down. 

He is once again forced to accept the reality that Sherlock, _the world’s only consulting detective_ , is also one of the _world’s biggest idiots._ He can't comprehend what his infuriatingly obtuse companion is trying to accomplish. That he has gone and done something so risky as dosing himself outside the flat and in the middle of a case seems ridiculously dangerous, even by their skewed standards of acceptable behavior.

The anger that comes with seeing his companion drugging himself is made more potent by the fury building inside the ex-soldier over the ultimatum he'd provided being so blatantly ignored. It was only two days ago that John had warned the apparently relapsed addict, in no unclear terms, to stop drugging himself or bare the consequences in the form of his wrath. He thought he had made it abundantly clear that the retribution would be _severe_.

_Two days! That's all it took? Did you even hear me, you twat? I know you did!_

John flexes his fingers, wishing he could punch a wall or, better yet, a certain consulting detective’s lights out. 

It was not an easy two days. No one in his prodigious sexual history has ever been able to entice John Watson like Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock; lovely, clever, _flexible_ Sherlock. His delightful body; sharp yet smooth, hard planes yet meaty in all the right places, strong yet delicate, always moving; energetic and swift, or fluid like dancing, or lax, bent at oddly beautiful angles and sprawling. It seems he is specifically created just to inflame and torment John’s libido. 

Living with Sherlock has always been living on the knife’s edge. But _this_? John has a creeping suspicion that everything is being pushed too far. Perhaps John could battle his darker instincts and win with time, space and the knowledge that Sherlock isn’t going to push him so far again. But now, with the memory still drumming fresh in all the ex-soldier's nerves like an entrancing siren’s song... The ex-soldier has felt that cruelly luscious and appetizing body writhing beneath him like prey on a hook, he has taken hands to it; marked it, claimed it. John isn't sure even his strength and willpower can withstand that. There can be no stopping the ferocious acts that naturally drive him once he makes it to that state of mind. No, the tantalizing game can only be pushed so far. Instinct takes over once the predator has that enticing flesh-and-blood realness of the taste of its prey on its tongue; then the primal blood frenzy begins. 

Sherlock is testing him; pushing the limits of everything decent.

A growl escapes from deep in John’s throat, but no one is paying him any mind. After all, with a genius madman fluttering about, spewing dark secrets and obscure facts about anyone in his path, everyone is skittishly keeping their attention either willfully diverted or fixedly on the tall, menacing brunet.

John shares a glance with a young officer he has seen on at least two cases before. Newberry, he thinks is the slight, red-haired young man’s name. He is looking at John with a mixture of startled fear and pleading expectation, as if begging John to step in and calm the crazed consulting detective who is mercilessly attacking NSY. 

He is suddenly aware that all their acquaintances believe it is his responsibility to keep Sherlock in line. He has always encouraged Sherlock to do better, but he has never forced him to do anything. He never really took control of the younger man. He had just been given that power and held it loosely; never pressing it. That Sherlock willingly submitted to his gentle prods gave everyone a false sense that the ex-soldier had some magical powers over his companion, but he obviously did not. If he did the consulting detective wouldn't be riding a high of 7% solution in the middle of a bloody police station.

As his mind races down this path of thought he feels his insides twist and a strange sensation, something like possessiveness edged with jealously, is rising into his chest too. There was an intimacy to this problem before today. It was a _private problem_ that only happened between them in their flat and only when John left. Now it would be a _Lestrade problem_ , which meant it would be a _Mycroft problem_. Which meant there was no way for the ex-soldier to protect his companion from the consequences of his ridiculous actions.

_They are going to take him away._

This thought sets John into motion, as the desire to grab Sherlock and pull him away before Lestrade notices rises from the bubbling cauldron of dark emotions he is currently stewing in. 

He steps between Lestrade and the consulting detective and tries to run interference by asking the DI to call Molly for the toxicology report. He turns back around, intent on getting Sherlock out of there in the interlude, only to find Sherlock is gone. Vanished without a trace.

_How does one lose a 183cm tall, manic prick in the middle of Scotland Yard, Watson?_

A savage fury takes over him, that he is just barely holding inside when Lestrade returns with the report in hand.

“Alright then, I suppose he’ll be pleased to see that Molly found traces of Necopidem…” Lestrade looks up and around. “Oi, where'd he go?”

John focuses on relaxing his tight jaw, aware that his smile still holds tension and can't be anything other than forced. “You know how he is... probably dashed off to track down a lead.” 

Lestrade tilts his head and gives John a considering look, his brown eyes surprisingly soft and weary. He scratches at the salt and pepper stubble on his cleft chin as he deliberates if the doctor is lying to cover something they don't want the DI to know about or if there is some fissure that he should be aware of between his _best asset_ and his _handler._

They both know Sherlock generally doesn't leave without at least telling John. _Not anymore._ A small consideration the detective had taken on himself to provide since he left John broken and empty for two years. The reminder of _that_ betrayal of trust does nothing to help John's temper. His return gaze is harder than it should be considering he holds no malice for the DI, _yet._

Lestrade turns away, running a hand through his bristly, silver hair and mumbling something about coffee.

John considers leaving and trying to find Sherlock, but without any clues to follow, the man could literally be anywhere. He shoots off a quick text message and waits.

> Tell me where you are you bloody idiot.  
>  You are being more than a bit _not good_ right now. 

The doctor reviews the files and does some research on his phone as he waits.

About forty minutes later Sherlock reappears with Anderson in tow. The detective enters the room like some sort of model on a catwalk; exuding sensuality and sex appeal. His eyes are half lidded and sultry, running over all the occupants with something desperately wanton. His expression is one of insatiable appetite and undiscerning desire to have _something._ When those viridian wells land on John, the corners of his mouth turn up, and his pink tongue darts out, doing a slow trace of those sinfully plump and full lips. John can't help but mirror the action with his own tongue and he feels his jeans tighten painfully. 

Long slender fingers touch at those plush lips thoughtfully, head tilting down and to the side in the slightest hint of submission as his fingers brush lightly, almost incidentally, down his neck, catching on the open v of his shirt as if to fiddle with the button there.

_He looks positively edible._

John’s nose flares as he inhales a huge lungful of air, releasing it in a long breath. His head is swimming, right on the edge of carnal insanity. He can almost forget where they are. There is the nearly overpowering urge to leap at Sherlock, push him to the floor and _take and take and take_ ; fuck him hard, not caring who sees it.

 _‘Let them watch. All the better’_ his brain offers fiercely desirous and possessive to the point of irrationality, _‘then there will be no question, he is mine.’_

John swallows and shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He hasn’t had to contain such wickedly sinister sexual thoughts for years. Not since his younger days, before the discipline of the army taught him self-sacrifice and self-restraint so he could control his more brutal urges. Once too many times _‘Three Continents Watson’_ found that his partners’ moans of pleasures had turned into cries of pain when, in the heat of the moment, he’d gone primal, plowing savagely and relentlessly into the hot body beneath him, chasing that high in the ecstasy of both rapture and agony intertwined. He had had to deal with the fallout, the judgement, the humiliation and at last the recognition that curtailment of his cravings was the only way. He had thought to master that skill, but Sherlock was most certainly testing him now. He digs his nails into his own palm to bring himself under control. 

This is not _drugged Sherlock_ this is something _different._

As Sherlock saunters towards him on those obscenely long, slender and shapely legs with a flirty sway to his hips, it crashes into John. The ex-soldier shoves his hands in his coat pockets to keep from reaching out and laying hands on the man as he stops right in front of him.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock slurs in a velvety voice, a sly pliancy in his eyes and expression. He looks up at his friend through long dark lashes, his flushed cheeks and pink lips making him look already debauched and ready for more. John can smell it on his breath, confirmation of his worst nightmare...

_Sherlock is drunk._

Anderson steps forward, his nasally voice heavy with disdain. “John, you might want to get the lush out before Lestrade sees him.” 

_Fuck. Anderson knows. This could be bad._

John glares at him and barely bites back the urge to growl. 

“How the hell did he get alcohol in here then?” John demands stepping, with his body rigid and threatening, towards the red-headed and heavily bearded Forensics Evidence Technician . 

Anderson sneers, “It wasn’t even that much. Bloody lightweight.” 

At John’s scathing glare, he shrinks back a little, bristling indignantly. “Sally has a stash of wine coolers in her locked cabinet. I don't know how he found it. I tried to stop him... Well, I told him that once Sally realizes she’s going to have his head on a stake. She's not an idiot. She _will_ see one’s missing.” 

“And what, precisely, will she do, Anderson? Report that someone stole her secret, _illegal_ stash,” Sherlock mumbles. 

He is bent over the desk now, staring at a file on it with the intensity as if it is a triple homicide instead of a traffic accident report. His hips sway slightly side to side. John tries not to notice how that position and Sherlock’s perfectly tailored trousers beautifully emphasise his round, tight ass... and he _fails_. His mind drifts, for a moment, to wonder if the bruise of his handprint still lingers on that white flesh, and his cock twitches painfully within the confines of his jeans. He pushes his coat down to hide it and glares at Anderson in an expression that clearly says _if you know what's good for you, you'll fuck off._

Anderson doesn't appear to notice, he wears a fiendish grin as he moves closer to the swaying consulting detective. “Oh, Sherlock,” his beady eyes have a glint and he sounds delighted with himself, “You owe me now.”

Sherlock straightens up, rolls his eyes and scrunches up his nose. He almost sounds like himself as he snaps, “I think _not_... Not unless, of course, you wish for Sally to know you’re cheating on her with the blonde in record keeping.”

Anderson huffs and sputters, eyes going wide. However, before he can come up with a rejoinder, Sherlock bounds across the room directly into Lestrade's office. 

Anderson gives John a reticent look which the ex-soldier meets with a cold stare. The technician retreats towards the back rooms, no doubt going to cover Sherlock’s tracks or risk finding himself the target of Sally’s fury.

John swallows and turns his eyes to the consulting detective that is now slinking into Lestrade's office. It’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck. John can only stand there, frozen in place, gobsmacked.

 _This is it. Sherlock is going to get us both sacked._

John starts running through the potential scenarios in his head and wonders if it won’t be good for Sherlock to have a break from cases through Scotland Yard. The website is still doing well. Maybe just taking those that arise through his blog will work better… at least until John can get him stabilized again. 

Sherlock is practically sashaying up to Lestrade, hips moving in fluid dips that John has never seen on the man before. With a surprisingly quick and agile movement he hops up to sit on Lestrade's desk in front of where the DI is standing. 

Even from this distance John can see the waver in Lestrade’s hand that holds his mug; an obvious tell of the hardened inspector being startled. He quickly brings it to his lips to hide this and then squints down at Sherlock who is making his usual animated gestures but less haltingly, more like he is engaged in some sort of flowing dance. The consulting detective makes an exaggerated motion in crossing his legs, even watching himself do it, then leans forward and looks up at the Detective Inspector. 

John huffs at how obvious his behaviour is and braces himself for the DI exploding and shouting them out the door any minute now, but instead, thankfully, _horrifyingly_ , Lestrade pulls a long sip on his coffee, eyes fixed on the brunet with an odd intensity, nods slowly, then appears to move towards his own seat behind his desk.

Confused, John takes a step forward. Before Greg can seat himself or John can reach the office, Sherlock leaps up and whings his way to the door.

“Come, Greg,” Sherlock’s deep voice is more of a croon, with none of his usual biting tone, and John nearly chokes at hearing him say the DI’s correct first name. The sting of that simple but somehow profoundly intimate concession by Sherlock startles John in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible. He freezes and that’s when he notices it. Greg’s eyes are tracking Sherlock intently, which he often does, but there is something new in them; a ferocity that doesn't speak to the usual wary, thoughtful or even concerned expression. 

As Sherlock struts towards the evidence room, where he apparently wants to show the DI something, Greg’s eyes drop and his eyebrows lift slightly at the ridiculous wiggle of the thin man's narrow hips - making his obscenely pert, round rear jiggle enticingly. Greg swallows and he purses his lips slightly. John doesn't have to think too hard to imagine what lewd thoughts are playing out in the Inspector’s head because John has admittedly thought them all. 

Mutual respect for the DI is instantly eclipsed by the desire to beat those thoughts right out of the older man’s head with his bare hands. 

John watches them walk off, knowing he should follow but feeling too wrathful to be certain that his tenuous grasp on his restraint will hold. For the first time in a long while he is concerned about what he might do. He sets his knuckles on the desk to take a few deep drags of air, clearing his head.

_Steady, Watson. Three years in Afghanistan. Veteran of Kandahar, Helmans and Bart’s bloody hospital, you can handle one William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

Straightening back up he nods to himself and makes his way after the pair. 

The sight that greets him when he enters the darkened evidence room jolts his heart into rapid motion in a way that almost certainly must mean he’s going into cardiac arrest. Everything moves in slow motion as John takes in the scene.

Sherlock’s top buttons are now undone, exposing creamy-smooth, white skin. His head is tipped back, dark curls resting against the shoulder of the Detective Inspector in a pose of complete surrender. One of the DI’s arms is wrapped loosely around his narrow waist. With a very hungry look, the older man is gazing down at that limp, pliant body, with his lips held close enough to be able to ghost down Sherlock’s impossibly long, impossibly pale neck.

It is absurdly dramatic, like an old horror film where the vampire is about to bite down on the helpless victim's neck and drink his fill. It’s as if the tableau before John is carefully constructed, every detail tailor-built to inflame him. Incite him. _Hurt_ him the most.

For a second John's legs lock. It’s bewildering, the intensity of this crippling, all-consuming feeling of torture. He feels it deep in his chest, an anguish resonating to his very core, shredding him.

Time unlocks slowly, and the seconds begin to tick for ward, as Greg leans in for a taste of that virgin skin. John watches, silent and unnoticed, witness to a moment of pure mutual intimacy unfolding in front of him. Every detail is burning into his memory; the flutter of dark eyelashes, the dangle of limp hands, the stuttering breaths of a thin chest, the concave of his too-thin stomach bracketed within a strong arm, the closeness of them, chest nearly pressed against that lean back. John feels himself crumbling like ash. Then the doctor suddenly notes the way Sherlock’s neck is taut; skin pulled tight over veins and muscles with tension and fear. Panic flickers in those pale eyes and those violinist fingers twitch anxiously, then dig into his own thigh as if he wants to stop this, but can't. 

John’s vision goes black. What might have been an all-out brawl turns out to be an astonishingly quiet transaction.

“I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you,” John growls. Greg’s head jerks up, seeing John for the first time. 

Embarrassment flickers across his face as he stammers, “Oh-ah-John…” Sherlock’s head falls forward, a sigh of relief directed at the floor. John reaches out, wrapping sturdy fingers around a thin wrist, and pulls Sherlock to himself. The younger man goes willingly, mouth parted, eyes downcast. Greg releases him just as willingly, appearing surprised and ashamed of his own behaviour.

“Before you try to take something that is _mine_ you best remember who can shoot a man at a hundred meters without his hand shaking and who nearly pissed his pants and missed every single shot at that bloody demon Hound on the moor," John’s voice is deep and menacing, his eyes are fixed on Sherlock, only flickering briefly to Greg.

Greg ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck “He, just-” Greg begins, but at John’s glare his mouth promptly snaps shut.

John lets his grip slide from Sherlock’s wrist to clasp his hand. The consulting detective doesn’t fight any of it; he lets John take his hand, like a scolded child who knows he’s done wrong, and he follows John all the way outside.

It isn’t until they’re almost a block down the street that Sherlock stumbles and John stops. Sherlock promptly doubles over and heaves by a rubbish bin in the alley. The doctor's firm grasp never once relinquishes Sherlock’s slender, now trembling hand.

When he completely empties the meager contents of his stomach and at last straightens up, the drugs, the alcohol and all of the strain of the day seems to have drained every ounce of energy he possessed. His legs wobble violently until John scoops him up and carries him tenderly, like the helpless child he’s gone and made himself into. 

John looks down at the younger man shivering in his arms and feels the retreat of that angry beast raging inside of himself, momentarily overwhelmed by fondness and care. He knows on some level that he should be furious and that the younger man only has himself to blame for his current state, but he wants nothing more than to wrap himself around his companion protectively, crushing him so close until they are nearly one being, inseperable. 

He carries Sherlock to a main road to hail a cab. When he starts to set the thin man down at the approach of the vehicle, long and suddenly surprisingly strong fingers clutch at John’s neck like he will drown without the safety of John holding him. He wants to stay close to John and how can the doctor refuse _that?_ He continues holding him until he can slide him into the back seat of the cab and crowd in next to him.

Inside the cab John can feel those soft curls lightly bounce against his jawline while the younger man’s head is tucked penitently against his chest. He braces his limp and weak friend with a strong arm wrapped around his frail frame. 

Sherlock eventually slides down to ball up on his lap. John rests a hand on his head, buffering him against any jostling bumps but resisting the urge to stroke his fingers through those luxurious curls.

Looking down at the face of the man he loves, it hits John, not for the first time certainly but just as intensely as every other time it has struck him, how very _young_ Sherlock appears. Though he’s only six years John’s junior, with his wide and bright eyes and ageless features he often appears more than a decade younger. 

Right now, with his smooth face dusted with creamy pinks, and his ripe-red mouth slightly parted and panting with the drugs and whatever remains of the alcohol still running through his system, he looks about 12. The protectiveness surges in John again, and he places an arm over Sherlock's waist pulling him further back on the seat and deeper into his own lap.

He can't (and will likely never be able to) fully comprehend the way the mad genius’ mind works. But he knows the man better than he’s known any other person in his life, better than anyone else has ever been allowed to know the spectacularly enigmatic creature, and he'd wager that, in some ways, he even knows the man better than the detective knows himself. 

For all the detective's time spent unraveling big and small murders and mysteries, John has spent their time together quietly trying to unravel the one thing most intriguing to him, Sherlock Holmes.

He almost doesn’t want the cab ride to end because he knows the actions of the day must be accounted for and he will be forced to reconcile what he now thinks he’s learned about his Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you're feeling this, send my lovely co-author _celesteal_ encouraging words.  
> **
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading. It is greatly appreciated.


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